The Dante's Inferno

The First Time I Died

Nigredo

20 years ago, you left, taking with you a piece of me, a piece I could never deny because when you left, you also left yourself with me forever.

The experiment of deaths at 17, yours and mine, hurt so much that one day I felt nothing at all—just like when hunger is so intense that the absence of food quenches the desire to eat, or like someone who feels they've lost everything and has nothing left to lose.

I knew everything about Syd Barrett and Pink Floyd, your favorite band, but I forgot.

The mind relegates everything it can no longer handle in the conscious to the unconscious.

Years and years of denial followed, pleading with God for you to return, for you to appear to me, years and years of listening to Pink Floyd, reflecting on life and death, years of feeling anger for being left here alone, hiding my pain from those I wanted to protect. Years and years of visiting your grave to smoke a cigarette and try to feel at least a little close to you, even though I knew from day one you weren’t there anymore.

I didn’t know where else to look for you... It was longing without remedy, an incurable disease, abandonment.

I remember one of our many conversations when you said life had lost its charm and meaning, that it wouldn’t make the slightest difference if you were Pink Floyd's drummer or if you achieved any other dream. It seems the only thing that keeps us alive is our dreams.

You asked me to go with you. We were soulmates, wasn’t that what we said?

We didn’t want to be apart.

While you tried to convince me that life here wasn’t worth it, I, at 17, already believing I had a mission, tried to convince you of a purpose for our existence.

We didn’t want to part, but we wanted different paths.

We sang: "Nowadays, how do you say, I love you?"

It seems dying wasn’t so hard.

We went through so much and experienced so many phases...

The Capulets didn’t approve, and then you left. When you came back, everything had changed except what I felt.

My first true love, my first real love, love of the soul, the longing transcended itself.

My first telepathy, my first horizon, my first disbelief in coincidences.

There was a time when I felt jealous...

However, as time went on and I endured so much pain and was so punished just for loving you, as we experienced other loves so different from ours, as we were separated by distance but united by letters, songs, and the payphone on the corner near my house that worked for just a few minutes when it felt like it—after our prophetic dreams, well, after all of that, I understood that it wasn’t about being together, or being with others, or being in different places. That kind of love would live and remain forever, existing anywhere.

Distance wasn’t an obstacle to love back then—not for us.

My best friend on this Earth, my confidant.

You told me about all your loves, and you knew about all of mine, and our love transcended all of those.

Maybe that was how we found to live what couldn’t yet be lived, but what mattered was that we lived it.

We knew we’d see each other again in the summer, and then it would be just you and me again.

We’d row on the river and fill your Discman with beach sand while we listened to "Vamos Fazer um Filme".

But there went part of me, traded for part of you, parts that extend infinitely into the infinite, and wherever you are, I know it still exists somewhere.

It takes strength to love.

Love teaches us to embrace flaws, while passion hides them.

You never made me believe my intuition was an illusion. You had it too. And what I loved most was that we didn’t need masks while dancing at Kafka’s ball.

The trust was immense—not in the ability to never make mistakes, but in the willingness to always want to fix them.

Freedom was given and respected because to love is to rejoice in another’s happiness and recognize the sparkle of another’s joy as an extension of one’s happiness.

The Capulets wouldn’t let me live, but I wanted you to live, to use your freedom in whatever way brought you joy, even when it didn’t, even when you discovered some paths weren’t so happy after all.

I feel proud of this love that was never selfish, proving it was true.

You were a life partner, a soul friend, and never in my life by chance, my second cycle of seven years.

Life After Death

When you said goodbye, I forgot myself and began to remember others. I never had an affair with weakness, and it’s no wonder my name means fortress. I realized that the strong are the ones who suffer the most.

Everyone pities the weak and the victimized, and sometimes it’s wise to play underestimated, as it avoids conflicts and suffering. Pity is a form of protection, but amid that throbbing pain, I told myself I didn’t want protection—I wanted to protect.

I always thought I should remain firm to shelter others' pain, and in doing so, I pushed my own to the deepest part of myself: my lack of acceptance for not understanding death, my hatred for it stealing your life. Or maybe I was jealous of it because, in the end, you chose it over me, it over us.

Even when being stoned, I ignored the rocks in favor of wanting to save those who felt as much pain as I did.

But why didn’t I save myself too?

Why was their pain, which I could feel, more substantial than my own?

Now I understand—it was that which saved me.

Because no one else would have saved me.

I think that was the tiny glimmer of the protagonist emerging from such suffering, my Queen of Wands, the masculine side built in the Major Arcana of the Emperor in the Fool’s Journey.

That side began to emerge from a state of pain and vulnerability. Feeling others’ pain hurt more than my own. So, I started hiding mine.

The strong are the ones who suffer the most because everyone assumes we can handle everything. It’s not that we’re insensitive; it’s that we endure sensitivity. It’s that we put our faces forward to be struck, then the other cheek, then the rest of the body. It’s that we test our limits and others’ limits, fight with death if necessary—as I once did—and then forgive it in a subtle sign of acceptance, understanding, and compassion.

I had allies, yes—all the possible escapes found on this planet Earth. That’s where I went when I needed to breathe. The outside world saved me momentarily, and I can’t criticize it because, if I’m still alive today, it’s because it granted me some pauses from my own existence; otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to bear life in the face of death, amid all the sobriety required of a 17-year-old.

If I survived, it’s because I was rebellious and didn’t listen to anyone. It’s because I did as I pleased.

I let all my leaves fall. I became ugly and barren. Everyone thought I had given up on myself, but once again—evolution’s law—only the strong survive, even though they are the ones who suffer the most.

And I was simply saving myself for the rain, for fertile soil, and for pleasant weather. Then, in that moment, everyone would see how beautiful I truly am and how many fruits I am capable of bearing.

That was the first time I died. And, just like under the effect of a venom that mimics death, after some time, I rose again.

If you think winter weakened me, you’re mistaken.

I remember those who abandoned me, thinking I was useless, those who mocked me because I was ugly, those who wanted to set me on fire because I was dry, those who forgot how beautiful I once was and now didn’t even notice me.

Rooted and leaning on my roots, I watched all of them pass. But amid so much suffering and lack of empathy, I looked at my fallen leaves on the ground, fed on myself, and knew that one day they would once again be part of my branches.

And during that dark time, everything and everyone I observed transformed me considerably. But I can’t fail to mention those who came to water me, those compassionate souls who mourned my fate, remembering me in my glory days. I hated them more than those who wanted to set me on fire.

In contrast, the few who brought me water, those who believed in me and made those painful moments have a little love—those small gestures made me forget the judges and the pitiful ones. They made me believe humanity was still redeemable.

The trees around me with perfect rings, never having faced a storm, can’t endure even a gust of wind on their branches. Because of everything I lived through, I now see each one differently and have learned how to deal with them in distinct ways.

Now I know who would burn me, who would cut me, who would lament my torpid state and underestimate me. But I also know who would quench my thirst—those who believed and never gave up on me, keeping alive the part of me that most needed to survive.

The Rebirth

The New Version

But after understanding what death is, I thought I was completely healed. I had healed from your departure, but the pain renewed itself in a new version.

It was a test, part of my second season in the Fool’s Journey. But this time, the Fool wasn’t so foolish anymore.

So, I didn’t need as many years as before—just one year was enough. I found the pattern; I think I passed the test.

Because now there’s a new version. David Gilmour finds “Luck and Strange.”

It’s my fifth cycle of seven years.

It’s the same pattern presented differently.

Back then, I couldn’t do this, but today, when something bothers me or when I realize I’m walking in circles, I look out my window and start categorizing the emotions to identify what I’m truly feeling and where that feeling comes from.

When I categorized and classified all the feelings and their origins, the only thing that truly remained was longing without remedy.

And what is death if not that?

We’re not afraid of death; we’re afraid of longing.

And above all, we fear abandonment—the fear of being abandoned by the one we never wanted to abandon.

In this new version, there was no death, but there was its literal sense: abandonment and longing.

So, it was a test to see if I had healed, to see if I understood that death is, in fact, rebirth.

However, unlike you, this one is a coward—but a coward who taught me what I needed to learn, even in his cowardice.

And “Between Two Points,” finally, Pink Floyd no longer reminds me of death—it now reminds me of how I overcame it.

I know that if I had chosen to go with you, we’d be doing “The Great Gig in the Sky.”

But even after having died in life, I still believe in the mission, and thus, I’ve continued. Yet every time I sing, I know my voice is one of those singing in your choir.

What kept me here was the curiosity to know what would happen, as if I already knew what lies beyond death but knew nothing about what’s here. Yet everything you told me about how you felt about life—all of that was transferred to me as soon as we both died, and I spent years living with it.

My soulmate, you know more than anyone that I never truly abandon those my spirit loves and that distance doesn’t exist for those who love with the spirit.

The loves of the material world are merely passing—they’re short, fragile, and fleeting silver cords. Still, though they are essential for the preparation of the spirit, they come and go. They are the path but not the destination.

You were never a passing moment; you were the light side of my light, the rainbow crossing this dimension.

The light side of the moon. And he is the dark side of the same moon, just as important.

When you left me alone in this world, alone to fulfill a mission I didn’t yet understand but desperately longed to discover, I needed you so much.

But you had already left what I needed to know on your headstone: “Stars don’t die; they just change places...”

And then I remembered that you still help me from the other side.

After years of hating death, years of not accepting it, after my fight with God, I played Russian roulette with my life.

But what kept me here, despite everything, was the fact that I loved people too much. It was the fact that I never wanted anyone to feel the pain of my absence the way I felt yours.

And only now do I see that it was this that saved me.

What kept me here was feeling others’ pain because, I assure you, I no longer cared about my own.

But on the day I understood death, I healed, and then I was reborn.

However, all those memories were so distant, and I had to dig them up for a noble cause.

I knew I was repeating a cycle and couldn’t understand why it hurt so much, but I couldn’t find the pattern—it was too far away.

Then, the patterns were in the references.

I remembered how I used to love, how pure it was, how free, how it wasn’t selfish.

And finally, I understood that I had changed too much because of the abandonment. I had changed to protect myself from the pain.

At first, I stopped believing in love and began abandoning everyone before they could abandon me. I started living for beginnings, no longer believing in happy endings.

After harvesting only suffering from a hollow life, I opened myself up, but I had lost the ability to trust. I sabotaged myself to avoid even the faintest memory of that pain.

Now, I’ve already made peace with God, and I’ve already been reborn. But in a world where my hatreds were apathetic and my tears seemed to serve only for cleansing, this time, there was a different kind of pain—one I knew all too well.

I couldn’t find the pattern. I had to go back three cycles of seven years.

I, who always let you be free, kept you trapped here for years. I finally understood.

I remembered how I truly loved. I remembered that attachment was born only because, for years, I couldn’t accept your abandonment, I couldn’t accept the incurable longing, and I needed to heal.

I remembered our letters and our shared contemplation of the same horizon. Then, I remembered that “the plan was for us to be okay...”

I risked going through it all again, for at least another six years, because I didn’t understand, didn’t accept, and couldn’t remember how I really loved before all these layers I had built.

But now I remembered. I remembered what true love is.

I needed to dive into the shadow because I couldn’t know pain, nor could I speak of how I transmuted it, without having lived it.

I needed to feel abandoned once again to be able to write about it, and then, only through it could I fulfill part of my mission, which is to help those who go through what I once did.

So, it seems part of my mission is to fulfill it alone.

And wherever you are, I am grateful for having had you, even if only for a fleeting moment, teaching me how to move to the next phase and move forward on this journey.

I learned—learned from the absence and the presence.

In the end, none of this is a metaphor, not even your name.

And so, after bathing in the bubbling blood lake of the Styx River and burning in the cemetery of fire of disbelief in God, in Dante’s Inferno, after so long living there to look for you, I finally emerged from such torment because I discovered you were never there. And I was the only one who, in the hope of finding you, dwelled in those nine infernal cycles.